The Swan

The Swan

The trumpets were curled away, the drum beat no more,
Only the Swan, the Swan, danced in my brain
All night she spun, dropped, lifted again
Arched and curved her arms, sunk on the
Snow-brittle feathers skirting her, reclined on hands
Buckling her waist, where the moon glanced
How small her waist was, and the feet that dance
Sometimes she bent back, and a breeze fanned

I cannot dance upon my Toes- Emily Dickinson

I discovered yet another strong, intensely reticent poet(silent girl, imagine sense and sensibility era kinda girl) Emily Dickinson (1830-86). I really liked her.

Choosing to live life internally within the confines of her home, Dickinson brought her life into sharp focus. For she also chose to live within the limitless expanses of her imagination, a choice she was keenly aware of and which she described in one of her poems this way: "I dwell in Possibility." Her small circle of domestic life did not impinge upon her creative sensibilities.

Dickinson neither completed many poems nor prepared them for publication. She wrote her drafts on scraps of paper, grocery lists, and the backs of recipes and used envelopes.




I cannot dance upon my Toes

I cannot dance upon my Toes—
No Man instructed me—
But oftentimes, among my mind,
A Glee possesseth me,

That had I Ballet knowledge—
Would put itself abroad
In Pirouette to blanch a Troupe—
Or lay a Prima, mad,

And though I had no Gown of Gauze—
No Ringlet, to my Hair,
Nor hopped to Audiences—like Birds,
One Claw upon the Air,

Nor tossed my shape in Eider Balls,
Nor rolled on wheels of snow
Till I was out of sight, in sound,
The House encore me so—


Nor any know I know the Art
I mention—easy—Here—
Nor any Placard boast me—
It's full as Opera—